Refuge
by Bowsergal
Summary: Unexpected guests are, all at the same time, the best, the worst, and the least expected kind of guests.
1. knock

Sven was baking a cake. It always kind of disturbed Train, seeing a grown man run around in aprons. Guys just don't _do_ that. It was _weird_. He certainly didn't mind the cake, though. Maybe aprons improved cooking skill or something.

Eve sat on the counter, staring down at the oven. Her deadpan look was intended to will the oven into making the confection faster, as it had willed many opponents into submission before. Alas, though, the cake was invulnerable to Eve's deathglare, it cooked at normal speed.

This was always the hardest part to endure in any sort of cooking expedition: the time in-between "well it's not done yet, let's sample it" batter phase, and the "Holy yay it's done, let's chow down!" cake phase. Eve was on edge. Train was on edge. Sven was reclining on the couch, watching a soap opera.

The man had just lifted the remote when the doorbell rang. Eve and Train jumped up, "Is it done yet?" yelled Train, preemptively.

"No," Simple, toneless. It was that sort of thing parents say to overexcited kids, in that same sort of voice. He rose from the couch. Striding over to the door, Sven checked the peephole. He could see some sort of black cloth. Perplexed, and against his better judgement, Sven opened the door.

Standing before the green-haired man was a mess. A complete, total, literal mess of a man. Matted blond hair hung down from under a black top hat, a pair of silver-rimmed sunglasses cracked in several places. Dark red splotches discolored the strands here and there, dried blood. The small portion of his face that was visible was bruised. The remains of a long black coat hung around the man's thin body, rent with tears and rips.

It was unmistakably Charden Flamberge, but as Sven had never seen the man before. Beaten. Feeble. Charden leaned heavily on the doorframe, pushing himself up with one arm, the other hanging at his side, limply. Thin fingers clad in white silk splayed over the painted wood, gripping tightly at the frame. The Blood Taoist's face a mask of pain, he said slowly and deliberately,"I ...fought Chronos. Lost. Don't want to ...die. Don't tell... Kyoko. Apolo...gies if I'm... imposing," his words punctuated by coughs. Sven could see tiny pinpricks of blood on the back of Charden's glove, after he coughed into it each time.

The man squeezed tightly onto the frame again, then relinquished his grip and his hold on consciousness. He pitched forward as he fell.

Easily, Sven caught the man, easing him to the ground. He felt too light, like he wasn't all there. Not healthy.

He called to Train, his voice grave and commanding. The household moved as a unit, Eve picked up the phone while the two men hefted Charden over to the couch Sven had so recently vacated.

Eve's quiet words broke the deathly silence that had descended over the room, calm, quiet, almost afraid."Hello? Yes, it's Eve. Um, we... We need help. Here. No, no hospital. Absolutely not. Okay. Thank you."

And then, all three waited, Sven and Train looming over the other male, Eve watching quietly from the phone.

--

**AN: **So I'm changing the format a tad. I wasn't struck by any lyrics, so there are none. It gives the page a better flow, no? Right into the story, I guess. 33

Reviews are met with cake and love.

More love goes to people who visit my LJ community, community (dot) livejournal (dot) com (slash) sanguinespark


	2. decisions

"All things considered, Mr. Flamberg didn't fare too badly," Tearju said, pushing up thin spectacles.

She stood beside the Taoist, who lay on the guest bed. For the past hour or so, the professor had been tending to his injuries, bandaging and dressing the numerous wounds. Sven leaned on the door frame, and Train sat in a chair. Eve stood by the foot of the bed, staring curiously up at the unconscious man.

The room was cramped, as guest rooms usually are. With barely enough room for the bed, a small table, and the chairs, five people made it seem suffocating, even if one of them was knocked out. Crossing her arms, the professor continued,"He's very lucky. My theory is that he faked his own death by letting the blood pool out, and then he drew it back into himself as soon as the Numbers, or whomever he encountered, left. With a little time, and more than a few nanomachines, he should be back in running order. Mr. Flamberg should awaken in the next few hours, but he'll still need constant care. I hope you're prepared for that. Anyway, I must be going now, urgent things to do."

An uneasy look settled onto Sven's face. He tipped his hat back, nervously,"Er, well, we were planning on letting you take him..."

Tearju laughed, "Oh heavens, no, I couldn't possibly do that. Me, bringing home a strange young man this late at night? Think of the talk!"

Sven and Train both sweatdropped, as she left, giggling.

"Such an odd woman," Train remarked, "But like clone, like donor, right, Sven?"

"I am not weird."Eve said, indignantly.

Ignoring her, the black cat went on,"So are we just going to give him to Annette or something?"

"Sounds like a plan," Sven nodded.

Her voice ringing out, nervous, and just the least bit angry, Eve stated, "No."

"Eve, you can't be serious. He's a criminal, and worse, an unrepentant one. We're taking a risk not sending him to jail."

"I'll take care of him. I'll bear the responsibility of his actions. You won't have to do a thing." She spoke without looking up, concentrating on the injured man.

Sven sighed, then walked out. "Okay, princess, whatever you say," he said, straightening his hat.

As soon as they were out of her earshot, the brown-haired man turned to his companion, "What are you thinking? She can't possibly-"

"Eve is determined. She wants to do this. I'm guessing she's trying to imitate me," he shrugged, "But I doubt anything bad will happen. We'll keep an eye on him, but I have faith in her."

"You're treating this like we're taking in a puppy instead of a wanted terrorist!"

"And how is that different than when I took you in?"

Train had nothing to say about that.

--

**AN:** Guh, lots of dialogue in this chapter. D: At least this is better than the other version I didn't submit. ;

Still excited about the future of this piece.


	3. soup

Eve was cooking. The girl stood at the kitchen counter, carefully slicing carrots into thin discs. There were several other piles of vegetables on the cutting board: celery, peas, and tomatoes, to name a few. She'd been preparing it for the past half-hour, following after Lunatique's rushed getaway.

"Eve, you know you don't have to cook for the guy," said Train, calling from the living room. He was half-watching some new mecha drama type show on the television, half-supervising Eve,"and knowing your genes, you might just make him worse."

The girl huffed indignantly, and a retaliatory pot lid flew out of nowhere to hit Train firmly on the head. "Little Prin-cesss," Train whined, while Eve switched her focus to something completly different.

Sven had said something a long time ago, perhaps it would help with her cooking. Proper attire. Proper attire. Eve searched around a moment.

Sven had left one of his numerous spare fedoras hanging on a hook by the door. Eve snatched it and fixed it firmly on her head. There. Maybe this time, it wouldn't turn out to be a total disaster. She hoped she could absorb some of Sven's cooking ability through the hat. Returning to the kitchen, she carefully dumped the vegetables into the boiling beef broth. Task complete, she plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs and read, waiting.

The aforementioned owner of said hat chose that time to make his entrance, opening the front door whilst carrying a bag of groceries. He leaned on the door, closing it back. The man loped over to the kitchen, and began putting things away.

Seeing the pot on the stove, he turned to Eve, "You're cooking? Why didn't you wait for me, I could've fixed you something to eat,"

"It's for Charden-san. He's my responsibility, so I should cook for him, "Eve responded, not looking up from the book.

"Just because you're taking care of him doesn't mean you have to do everything alone," Sven sighed. He looked at her again, "Why are you wearing that?" he gestured at the hat.

"Gentleman's code."

"But you're not-" Sven exhaled again, "Nevermind." A few minutes later, and Eve got up to stir the soup. Lifting the ladle to her mouth, she tasted it and nodded. The girl's hair reached up and retrieved a bowl from an overhead cabinet. She set it down on a tray, beside a clean spoon and a glass of water. She started to lift the pot, but was cut off by Sven, "Let me," he said, ladling the thick soup into the bowl Eve chose. "Don't spill it, it'll probably stain the carpet. That means more money for carpet cleaning and less for books, okay, Little Princess?" He smiled, handing her the tray.

Solemnly, the girl took the wooden tray and began walking, in short, measured strides, neither the soup, nor the water threatening to splash. As the child started climbing the stairs, Sven marvelled at her maturity,"I never thought she'd learn anything useful from me. Eve's grown so much."

--

**AN:** sorry for the long wait between updates. D: I hope this chapter goes over better than the last. The last one sucked, frankly, and I'll probably rewrite it soon.

DEAR GOD THIS ONE STILL LOOKS SHORT DDD:

(go to community dot livejournal dot com slash sanguinespark, pleaaase. 333)


	4. connexions

Tap tap.

Ugh. Charden rolled over on his side, facing the wall. He _hurt._

Tap tap.

He drew the pillow over his head, shutting out the noise. Closing his eyes once again, he drifted back off into unconsciousness.

--

Must still be asleep. Eve frowned at the door, and thin tendrils of her hair crept yp, wrapping themselved about the doorknob. The soup wasn't very heavy, but Eve didn't want to risk spilling it, so she hurried to get it into the room as fast as possible.

Sure enough, her houseguest was still down. Setting the tray down on the bedside table with a soft 'clatterthunk,' Eve looked the man over before retiring in the chair that Train had sat in only a few hours earlier. grabbing the underside, she turned it to face the bed, then drew out a small paperback book from her pocket. As she opened the novel, the spine cracked pleasantly, and the girl read, waiting for Charden to awaken.

The soup's thick aroma permeated through the small room, heavy beef broth washing over the less pungent vegetables. Steam rose in curls over the muddy-looking stew, but the heat would retain for quite a while longer. Eve's head was bent, her crimson eyes focusing on the small book in her lap. The tiny girl was silent. In fact, the entire room was silent, save for the soft breathing of the blonde male and the occasional crisp turn of her book's pages.

The house was comfortably warm --Train kept it that way when he was home, ignoring the heavy lamentations of Sven over the heating bill -- and her chair wasn't too uncomfortable. It wasn't long until the pages turned less and less frequently, finally stopping, as Eve fell asleep. The book lay in her hands, still open, sheet of blonde hair curtaining it from view, Eve's chin barely brushing the front of her black dress.

Tink.

Tinkscrape tink.

Eve jerked her head up, a violent, swift motion, shaking off the doze. Oh, it was just Charden, awake, finishing up his soup. Halfway through lifting the spoon to his mouth, the man noticed Eve was among the living again. Politely, he laid the thin silver utensil down in the bowl, and moved the bowl back onto the tray, beside an empty glass and a few crumbs of bread. Another moment passed as Charden pressed the napkin to his mouth, wiping away any flecks that remained of his meal.

Folding the napkin neatly, he laid it beside the bowl, and spoke, bowing his head lightly as he said,"Thank you, Miss... Eve, correct?"

Eve nodded her head in reply, already engrossed in her novel again. As soon as she had gotten her bearings, apparently the girl dove back into her literature. Quirking an eyebrow at the white fedora still shoved onto her head, Charden folded his hands in his lap, leaning back up against the wooden headboard.

"You're quite a cook for someone so small. Even at my age, I still have a difficult time preparing any meal other than instant ones, regrettably."

A long silence followed, and he frowned. Trying to elicit a response, he tried again. Charden wasn't good with children, but he thought maybe he could try and be ...friendly? for once, if only to eradicate the stiff silence filling the space in the room,"Most of the time, I just eat raw vegetables, if I can't go out. Do you like vegetables?"

He withheld a sigh as another terse silence invaded, the constant turn of the book's pages adding more tension. Charden felt obscenely awkward, until,"Sven taught me," finally, the quiet broken.

"Pardon?"

"Sven taught me how to cook,"each word sharp and clipped, Charden almost preferred the silence to her tone of voice.

"Give him my compliments as well, then,"he said, smoothing the sheets over his legs. At this moment he just happened to notice the scent of cigarettes heavy in the air. Looking down, he realised he was in different clothing from when he'd arrived.

Noticing the faint look of alarm on Charden's face, Eve calmly stated, "Your old clothes were too torn up. Tearju had to cut them off of you, they were dirty, and in the way,"

"Tearju?"

"A doctor, she's a friend of ours. You're wearing something of Sven's,"

"Mmm," Charden nodded. "What are you reading?"

"The Masque of the Red Death, currently. But it's a collection of short stories," She turned yet another page.

"_Blood was its Avator and its seal — the redness and the horror of blood,_"quoted Charden cryptically. A wry grin lit his face, for the first time since he'd awaken. A moment passed, and Eve's head snapped up to look at him.

"You know of Mr. Poe?"

Ah, now Charden was in his element. He could talk about this; he had something familiar to take a hold of and chew over in conversation. "He's not as occult as Lovecraft, but along with inventing the detective story, Edgar is known as the father of the modern horror story."

Well, _he_ was certainly knowlegeable. One could draw from that short, but utterly overinformative and overeager sentence, that Eve had a bookworm on her hands, which was entirely okay with her. After all, it takes a bibliophile to know a bibliophile.


End file.
